


crisp trepidation

by provocation



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Alternate Universe - Popstar, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Mistaken Identity, Monster of the Week, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25895269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation
Summary: Before he can tell the person in no uncertain terms that he is not a cabbie, they open the unlocked back door and slide into his taxi. To be fair to them, it is a taxi, even if the light’s off. Even if he hasn’t turned the light on since the first time he got in this car.“Hi, thank you so much,” the intruder says, soft voice pleasantly melodic and cornflower blue eyes wide and hopeful. Geralt hates him already.-Inspired (loosely) bythis prompt!Geralt is a single dad who hunts monsters for a living. Jaskier is a popular musician who stumbles into his car. It's more of a meet-ugly, really, but they make it work.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi I almost never write modern AUs but this idea struck me and it wouldn't leave me alone!!! The lore in this is a mixture of game/show lore and inspiration I took from a Monster of the Week campaign I play, so there's going to be a wide variety of supernatural foes. Also: Ciri is adopted (Yen and Geralt are co-parenting her), magic still exists and was a part of Geralt's training but he's not a fully fledged 'Witcher', and Jaskier and Geralt are around the same age. Please enjoy!

“Geralt, there’s someone here to see you,” the newest intern announces. He’s showing promise although he’s too assiduous. It’s all well and good to memorize every culture’s compendium on the planet, but field training is important too. Sometimes on paper, it can feel easy to do their job; find the supernatural thing, identify the thing, deal with the thing. But in practice, when the _thing_ is nine feet tall and breathing hot, damp, angry air down at you, and when you know that lives are on the line, it’s hard to remember the specific protocols for a var-nether-dark-hell-beast-thing.

Still. The intern has shown up for work every morning— if not with a smile on his face, then with a serious demeanour and a willingness to commit to the business. That’s more than they could have reasonably expected, not when they get so many imperfect hires. The Keep is short enough on staff that each and every willing combatant matters. Even if they’re basically doing glorified secretarial work.

Geralt rises from his desk and then blinks at the intern. “... Who?”

The someone that’s there to see him strides in, carrying with her that eternal scent of lilac and gooseberries. Geralt stands and then smiles when he sees Yennefer’s company. His daughter runs up to him and hugs him, and Geralt glances at the clock on the wall. “Did you leave school early just to come visit?”

“No,” Ciri releases him, hopping back over to stand by her mother. “I mean, yeah, I left school early, but it’s because Yen is going on a trip with her girlfriend.”

Both women stare at him, awaiting his feedback. Geralt keeps his expression perfectly neutral, leaning into his training and not moving a muscle except to say, entirely without emotion, “That’s nice.”

“I told you he wouldn’t care,” laughs Yennefer, exhaling. She pats Ciri on the shoulder, who looks disappointed by Geralt’s lack of reaction. Teenagers are bizarre, and he has long learned not to ask. “But, yes, Triss and I are going out of town.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. Triss, the aforementioned girlfriend of his child’s co-parent, is a talented field researcher who rarely shows up at the Keep except to drop off her monthly findings or occasionally stock up on supplies. She’s been gone for the last two months though, chasing down tales of a creature that hides in the mist. “I thought she already was out of town?”

“Yes, and I’m going to meet her.” Yennefer places her hands on her hips as if to prepare for an argument. Geralt rolls his eyes, making no attempt to hide his reaction to _that_ — Yennefer has always been dramatic, but he has no doubt that she remembers their promises to each other. And one of those promises banned fighting, especially around Ciri. After a moment Yen relents. “So can you take Ciri?”

“Of course.” He smiles, and Ciri and Yen both beam in response. “I’m nearly done here, I just need another hour or so, and then we can head home. Unless you want me to bring you back to school?”

“No,” Ciri blurts out, dodging the half-hearted attempt to turn her into a more responsible child. “Nope! I’m good here, I can do my homework…” She casts her gaze around, looking for a distraction, and it lands on… “with Vesemir! Hey, Vesemir, wanna help me with my homework?”

The older man has no time to greet Yennefer before Ciri runs up to him, already holding out her binder. He sighs, but there’s no fire behind it— Geralt knows that the rest of the staff love Ciri just as everyone who’s ever met her does. While his boss is distracted, Geralt leans against his desk and whispers to Yennefer, “So. Anything special about this trip?”

“No,” she replies swiftly. Then she relents; “Maybe. I— I haven’t asked. She asked me to come, alone, so… I’m going.”

“Hmm.” Geralt reaches for the last dregs of his coffee and tries a sip; it’s gone ice-cold. He frowns and puts it back on the desk. “I’m glad to have the extra time with Ciri. I missed her.”

She nods. “I’ll be back long before two weeks from now… well, I’m assuming she isn’t going to keep us away for that long.” Then the ever-invulnerable Yennefer actually blushes, gaze dropping to the floor. “Anyway. Ciri’s got a school dance next Wednesday, and I was supposed to chaperone. Can you do it?”

That sounds like a nightmare… maybe he can ask Eskel to step in. “Sure.”

“Thanks, Geralt.” Yennefer steps forward and hugs him goodbye, and he breathes in the heavy scent of her perfume. The training that he went through to work in this profession has sharpened his senses, but sometimes he wonders if he wouldn’t notice her just the same if the two of them were normal humans unencumbered by anything magical.

Yennefer leaves, and Geralt debates driving Ciri back to school for only a minute. She’s likely to get more work done here anyway. He peeks over to steal a glance at Vesemir, head bent over Ciri’s schoolwork as she checks her phone. Geralt snorts and returns to his own work.

After that, time flies by. Geralt doesn’t bother printing out and filing any of his research on the specific threat he’s going to hunt tonight; he knows enough about ghouls. He makes a few notes in his field journal before heading to their armoury so that he can restock on silver bullets and test the batteries in his flashlight. He figures it might be smart to sharpen his second sword too. Geralt pours a liberal amount of necrophage oil over its blade until it’s shining and hungry, and then he sheathes it and throws it back into his duffel bag.

Ciri and Vesemir are nowhere to be seen when he heads back to the second floor. Geralt follows the scent of warm food to the kitchen, where, sure enough, Lambert has made an attempt at dinner. It’s probably the ugliest lasagne Geralt has ever seen, but Ciri is tearing into it as though Geralt hadn’t packed her any lunch at all today. So he keeps his mouth shut, and when Lambert offers him some, he nods gratefully.

His life is less structured when his daughter isn’t around; two weeks out of every four, Geralt doesn’t have to worry about things like packing lunches or school dances. But he’s glad to shift his schedule around for what little family he can call his own, so he makes it work.

When Ciri is around, he stays out all night working. He always comes home before eight in the morning so that he can drive her to school, and then after that he meditates and has some well-earned rest. When he needs to go to the Keep he’ll show up in the early afternoon, but he always leaves with ample time to pick up his kid from school. Then he makes dinner, and sometimes showers, and heads out to start the whole cycle all over again.

On nights like this, when Eskel is teasing Lambert for gratuitous use of ricotta, and Ciri is laughing so hard that soda comes out of her nose, and Vesemir keeps asking her about setting up official social media for the Keep, Geralt doesn’t mind the departure from their usual schedule. He’ll drive them home soon; he has no problem dropping Ciri off before starting his shift very late. It’s better to wait until the sky is dark anyway.

The night is cool by the time Geralt makes his way to his hunting ground, and he’s glad for his thick jacket. The mist that pervades through every street of their town makes no exception for the cemetery, as fog sweeps over the hills and obscures the distant rows of graves. Geralt points his flashlight out into the mist, sword at the ready.

But for a very long time, nothing appears at all. Geralt ends up turning off the light to conserve battery and to avoid notice from any nosy late-night audiences. His gaze falls over the tombstones in front of him, reading the epitaphs with disinterest. Nobody he recognizes is buried here, thankfully.

Then there’s a noise not unlike a hound baying, and Geralt turns, half expecting to see a wild dog. The sensor in his pocket starts to buzz, alerting him to the presence of monsters. But no ghoul stands before him; instead, a beautiful wraith the colour of sea glass is hovering above their grave, peering down at him curiously.

Geralt squints at them— specifically, at how the dim moonlight bends around and through them. They must have been gorgeous when they were alive. He feels a pang of sadness thinking about how long they might have been stuck here. But then, just as he’s made up his mind to help them, the ghost chants some nonsense about God and then fades into white and blue mist.

Not a wraith, then; just a benign spectre. Geralt breathes but doesn’t relax. His sensor is still buzzing away, loud enough that it sounds like a cell phone. The spectre’s aura _might_ be enough to set it off, but Vesemir hadn’t sent him here because of reports of ghosts. 

There have been two disappearances in this neighbourhood within the last two days, both at night. The second missing person had had a friend who had come to the Keep to put in a statement, babbling about a giant Gollum. Geralt had disagreed with the comparison— the ghouls that he usually encounters look more like zombies on performance-enhancing drugs. But when he hears a horrible gurgling from behind him and whips around, he has to admit— the necrophage _does_ kind of look like Gollum.

He makes quick work of it with his silver sword, but halfway through the fight the monster swipes low and scratches his leg. “Shit,” hisses Geralt; he hadn’t thought to bring any potions, and the pain that blooms through him is surprisingly sharp. He barely maintains his grip on his sword, and he ends up punching the ghoul like some sort of rookie.

The beast rears back, howling in pain— it leaves ectoplasmic matter on Geralt’s silver knuckles, which is disgusting but reassuring to see. Geralt steadies himself, fixing his stance and breathing in. Then he lops the ghoul’s head off, decapitating it in one neat stroke.

Silence falls over the graveyard, leaving Geralt to pant loudly by himself as he nurses his wounds. First comes harvesting; the blood and lymph that drains from the ghoul’s neck are valuable potion ingredients. He keeps his head high as he collects the materials from the monster’s remains, looking around for others. Ghouls usually have friends, but it seems that this one was a loner.

Geralt isn’t complaining. His sensor stays silent too, so he packs up his supplies and hurries to leave the cemetery. He can bandage himself up in a safer place than this. 

His car, for instance, has seen him in much worse conditions. Geralt unlocks the door to his yellow-and-blue taxi, labelled with the telephone number for the Keep, and then falls down into the driver’s seat with a huff. The heat turns on and even though Geralt is sweaty he’s glad for the warmth; graveyards always seem especially cold, but in the pale moonlight, everything felt colder tonight. 

He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, attempting to force it into some kind of presentable style. There must be a hair tie somewhere in his bag, or some ribbon or string… Geralt leans over to the passenger side, rifling through his duffel bag to try to find something. His focus is on the bag, which must be why he doesn’t notice the person outside his car until they rap against the window.

Feeling like a fish in an aquarium, Geralt turns to glare. But before he can tell the person in no uncertain terms that he is not a cabbie, they open the unlocked back door and slide into his taxi. To be fair to them, it _is_ a taxi, even if the light’s off. Even if he hasn’t turned the light on since the first time he got in this car.

“Hi, thank you so much,” the intruder says, soft voice pleasantly melodic and cornflower blue eyes wide and hopeful. Geralt hates him already. “I wasn’t sure if you were available, thanks for letting me in. You are available, aren’t you?”

“I’m not,” says Geralt.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, except the apology means very little when his next move is not leaving the car. “But I— my phone is dead, and I don’t really know this area? I’m not from around here, um, I’m staying at a flat close by though. I— I have my wallet, I’ll pay you cash, I just _have_ to get home.”

Geralt sighs. The scratch on his leg pulses, but it isn’t poisoned. “Shut the door.”

Obediently, the Redanian man shuts the door. At least, Geralt thinks he’s Redanian— his accent isn’t defined enough to suggest a particular region but it’s got a nice lilt to it. Geralt thinks he could listen to that voice talk for hours, then he worries that he might have to. “Thank you very much, I appreciate that more than you could guess. It’s cold here— does it often get cold here? I’ve been to this town before, of course, but I’m not sure it’s ever been so cold. … What’s your name?”

Geralt counters, “What’s your address?”

“Oh,” the man laughs, and then tells Geralt. It isn’t too far out of his way, and he can easily make a pit stop there before returning to the Keep to heal and meditate and do paperwork. The problem, he quickly divines, is going to be how talkative his new companion is. “I didn’t mean to be out this late, really, but you know how shows go. It’s ‘come, let’s have another! Come on, one more!’ and then next thing you know, you’ve lost track of the person assigned to take care of you, and you’re wandering the streets of a very cold and misty town. It’d be romantic if, you know, I could feel my balls. That’s sort of a prerequisite.”

“Hmm.” Geralt very pointedly does not think about the man’s balls. He wishes that they hadn’t been brought up at all. Shows of any sort aren’t really his thing, but he’s familiar with nights out drinking… except, weirdly enough, this man doesn’t smell like any sort of liquor. He’s wearing a scent almost too light to be cologne. It reminds Geralt of champagne but removed from any of the bitterness.

At the next stoplight, he eyes his passenger curiously in the rearview mirror, taking in his appearance. The man is wearing a dark blue dress shirt, tight white trousers, and a jacket long enough that he has to fold it underneath him on the seat. His hair is sweaty, clinging to his forehead, but the dishevelment only makes him look more handsome.

The idea of white pants seems an insane extravagance, and Geralt wonders what it says about him that he immediately worries about how he’d get them dirty, if he was in that outfit. Still, this man doesn’t seem like the type to be concerned about drycleaning fees. The shirt looks expensive, as does the jacket; the dark jewel tones suit his bright blue eyes and his fair skin. Geralt forces himself to stop ogling the man and drive.

“Well, are you going to share your name with me? Or does Kaer Morhen Transportation have a strict privacy policy?” His passenger leans back against the leather seats that are only ever used to store Ciri’s backpack on the way to and from her school (or once, a werewolf carcass).

“Geralt.”

“Geralt,” the man echoes back, testing the shape and sound of the name. He must be drunk. “A pleasure. You can call me Jaskier.”

Privately, Geralt thinks that he isn’t going to call this man anything. “Fine.”

“So, Geralt, do you live nearby?”

“Yes.” Why, why, _why_ had he said that? Geralt grimaces and reaches for the radio, powering it up so that he doesn’t have to hear another word of small talk from the well-dressed, nice-smelling drunkard. Even if it is very pretty small talk, he has no idea how to respond to it, so he doesn’t want any of it. 

Thankfully, a mild dancehall remix from a few summers ago comes on, and that seems to appease the passenger. They drift into a comfortable silence as Geralt drives, keeping his eyes half on the road and half on the man in his backseat. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel along to the beat until he realizes he’s doing it, and then he stops it abruptly.

The song crossfades into a top 40s pop song— one that Geralt unfortunately recognizes from the very first notes. This one comes on the radio _all_ the time in the car with Ciri, and although he loves his daughter very much Geralt cannot bear her taste in music. He reaches to turn the radio to a different channel right as the guy in his backseat cheers, “Hey, this is my song!”

Geralt’s grimace returns, worse than before. “Sorry,” he mumbles, moving to change it back. He is so not cut out for this job, which, of course, makes sense, because it isn’t his fucking job. The lack of customers is a specific asset to working at the Keep, and when they do have to deal with clients, those clients aren’t very chatty.

Except the passenger shuffles forward, leaning into the space between the seats. “No, no, don’t change it back, it’s alright,” he hums. Geralt obliges, removing his hand from the dial.

He regrets failing to install a glass barrier like most cabs have, because up close, the scent of this man’s floral perfume is even more defined. Geralt almost wishes that the man _did_ smell like alcohol, because then it would be easier to recoil and tell him to move away. As it is, he sits ramrod straight in his seat, hands at ten and two on the wheel— and leg bleeding, but that’s fine, it’s the other leg, Jaskier doesn’t need to know about that.

“Can I ask why?”

Geralt’s thoughts are clouded like how the mist blankets the town, and so he fails to process Jaskier’s meaning. “Why what?”

“Why don’t you like that song?” The man puffs up his chest, inhaling. “It’s alright, I can take it.”

“It’s just uninspired,” Geralt begins, and Jaskier squawks. “Like a… like a pie with no filling.”

“Like a pie—” Gasping as though he’s been shot, Jaskier throws himself back into his seat. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Put your seatbelt on,” he tells his passenger, and then waits until Jaskier does. “... It’s just about a break-up, which is fine. Most songs are about love and sex and break-ups. But there’s no feeling behind it, and it’s so repetitive. You said you were at a show tonight, right? Well, if I went to a show and music like that was playing, I wouldn’t know what to do. Probably just stand in the corner and drink. You can’t dance to it, and I don’t see the point in singing along to lyrics like that. It’s… it’s both sad, and happy. Are we supposed to believe that the man singing even _liked_ the woman?”

When he glances into the rearview mirror again, Jaskier is already staring at him. He just looks confused. “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt instinctively says. “I mean. You… you asked.”

“Yes, I did.” He sighs, looking out the window; the passing streetlamps illuminate his face yellow, and Geralt has to force his gaze away again. “Do you… um, do you know who sings it?”

“No. I suppose they have other songs of the same variety?”

“Ha,” Jaskier laughs, twisting the hem of his jacket in his hands. “Oh, that’s… Well. To be fair, there are, like, several very viral dance challenges right now, so I do think that _some_ people could dance to _Her Sweet Kiss._ But I… I understand. Not all… of their songs are like that.”

“I didn’t mean to insult your taste in music,” Geralt backtracks, even though Jaskier’s taste in music is awful. “I’m sure it’s very… danceable.”

“It is,” Jaskier agrees, meeting Geralt’s gaze in the mirror. At this rate, they’re going to crash the car. “I mean, I— I think so. I have to disagree with you about how simple it is, though, I think you’ve misinterpreted it horribly. I mean, he’s not even really singing about his relationship with the girl, it’s more, like, from the perspective of someone stuck in a relationship... Their other music is different, it’s got, um, more depth! At least, I think it does.”

“I’m sure it does,” Geralt assuages. He’s sure it doesn’t, but heaven forbid he missteps anymore in this conversation. “I don’t know anything about it; I just hear that song all the time because my daughter likes it. She listens to it every time it comes on the radio, so… so do I.”

This seems to cheer Jaskier up for some mysterious reason. “That’s nice! How old is your daughter?”

“She’s fifteen.” Geralt relaxes a little, leaning back into his seat. Jaskier does the same, and Geralt has the unthinkable urge to ask him a question in return and prolong the small talk. He obviously doesn’t, and so they fall into a comfortable silence. Quiet alternative music fills the empty space and the rest of the ride passes without comment.

Until they pull up outside Jaskier’s apartment, and then Geralt fumbles with what to say. He suddenly wishes the man would stay; he doesn’t know what they’d do together, so it’s a stupid wish, but. Having company wasn’t actually as bad as he had worried it might be. He stammers, low and quiet, “I like, um, I like the line ‘I am weak, my love, and wanting’. That’s not so bad, for a run-of-the-mill earworm about a break-up.”

He expects Jaskier to brush him off or to insist that it doesn’t matter. But clearly it does matter, at least a little, for some reason. Geralt watches in the rearview mirror as a private smile ignites over his passenger’s face, lighting up his expression. It makes him look impossibly beautiful. Geralt is possessed by the sudden certainty that he’s missing something here, but he has no idea what; his sensor stays docile in his pocket so it can’t be anything warranting actual suspicion.

“Thank you,” Jaskier replies, soft and vulnerable, and then, coughing, “yes, um, thanks. I like that line too,” and then he hands Geralt more money than any sane person would ever pay for a taxi ride.

“What’s wrong with you,” demands Geralt, and then, trying to thrust the money back, “That’s too… I don’t have change for that! That’s way too much.”

“It’s fine,” Jaskier promises, grinning wide and shameless now. “Have a good night, Geralt. Thanks for the ride.” And with that, he climbs out of the car, leaving Geralt to his confusion and solitude.

Geralt watches him go, mulling over the entire interaction in his head and wondering how he could have avoided the awkwardness. Not being a dick probably would have helped. Then, just as he’s about to pull away and drive to the Keep, two things happen at once.

First, the sensor in his pocket buzzes, loud and unmistakable.

And second, one of the shadows on the wall beside Jaskier moves.

“Fucking shitting motherfucker,” Geralt says, reaching over the centre console to grab his sword from his bag in the passenger seat. He kicks the door open just as the shadow lunges, and the sound is enough to distract both Jaskier and the unfriendly spirit. “Run!”

Even if he doesn’t notice the shadow about to grab him, it would be normal for Jaskier to at least consider bolting at the sight of a taxi driver brandishing a sword and yelling. He backs up obediently but doesn’t run. Thankfully, the spirit seems to have switched targets for now, artfully curving around the light in the street to reach him.

Geralt meets it with silver, swinging at the air and growling when his blade connects with not-quite-air. This is some sort of wraith, for sure— he’ll have to ask Vesemir about recent deaths in the area, or maybe try to get Lambert’s police contact to give them information. But right now his priority is saving Jaskier. … Jaskier, who is still standing and watching like a deer in headlights.

“Run,” Geralt barks at him again, and again, Jaskier stays put. The ghost screeches, swinging at Geralt with green talons that warp the light around them to almost glow. Geralt ducks then rolls underneath the spirit until he’s standing in its path and blocking Jaskier. 

He ducks once more before stabbing forward, and thankfully, this thing doesn’t seem to like the taste of necrophage oil any more than the ghoul had. It bellows out one last piteous sob before exploding, sending shards of light and dark everywhere and inverting the world. Geralt shields his eyes, growling, but when he opens them, the spectre is gone.

Behind him, there’s a tiny noise almost like a gasp. Geralt whirls around, stalking towards Jaskier; they’re only six feet apart, so he closes the gap between them in no time, poking the blunt side of his sword against the man’s expensive dress shirt. Champagne and lilies overwhelm his senses, but he’s focused enough to demand angrily, “Why didn’t you _run?”_

“What—” Jaskier gulps, leaning to peek around Geralt. He doesn’t seem bothered at all by the sword pressed to his ribs, so Geralt huffs and then retracts it. “What was that thing? Why did it come after me?”

“You’re alive, you have warm blood, it was probably hungry.” He sighs. “Just… forget about this, alright? It’s done now.”

Geralt turns to head back to his car, unceremoniously throwing his sword into his bag. But before he can climb in and head back, he sees that Jaskier is following him, nearly bouncing— likely from nerves. “How did you know how to fight like that? Do you see things like this often? Are you some sort of monster hunter?”

“Something like that,” Geralt huffs. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, Jaskier. Just go home.” He doesn’t want to resort to begging, but he will.

The man mouths ‘something like that’, looking… well. He looks impressed, and dangerously curious. Geralt sighs; while Vesemir is all in favour of publicity and wants everyone to know that they can come to the Keep with any problem, his own feelings on the matter are slightly more private. 

But Jaskier doesn’t look like he’s going to be easily dissuaded. He fumbles in the pockets of his long jacket for his phone, and when he pulls it out and realizes it’s dead, he reaches for a pen instead. “I’d love to get your number,” he says, offering Geralt the pen and then pulling up the sleeve of his jacket to reveal his wrist.

Geralt blinks, before pointing to the side of the cab, emblazoned with blue and yellow livery and with the phone number for the Keep.

“No,” Jaskier shakes his head, pulling up his sleeve a little further. Geralt feels blood rushing to his face, and hopes against hope that the moonlight and streetlamps aren’t conspiring against him, and that it’s too dim to see any sort of blush on his face. “ _Your_ number.”

“Fine,” Geralt huffs, reaching for the pen. At first, it won’t leave any ink, but after he wets it against the tip of his tongue it flows out nicely. He writes his number in simple print, half-expecting it to wear off before the sun comes up. “There. Next time you need a ride, you can call. I work nights.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Jaskier tells him, seeming completely earnest. He smiles again before walking away, and once more Geralt watches him go until the door shuts behind him. Then he finally breathes and climbs back into his car.

By quarter to eight, the sun is up and his leg has healed. He opted not to return to the Keep for paperwork, driving home instead to properly care for his injuries and to prepare breakfast and lunch for Ciri. He’s back in the car now, freshly showered and bandaged and fed, and, of course, his teenage daughter has the radio tuned to an obnoxious pop station.

“But the story is this; she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss,” Ciri mouths along to the song as she texts one of her friends. Geralt catches himself drumming his fingers against his knee to the stupid pop beat. He stops, steadying his hands on the wheel.

Awkwardly, he clears his throat. “Wh— Who sings this?”

“Are you serious?” Ciri levels an unimpressed look at him. “It’s _Dandelion_. How do you not know Dandelion?”

Geralt shrugs. “Okay.”

By nine, he’s getting tired enough that his limbs are starting to ache, and Geralt is ready to retire for a few hours. He might end up taking another nap after picking Ciri up from school, or maybe even holding off on going to the Keep tonight. Geralt strips to his boxers and then puts on an old shirt, falling into bed.

But before he drifts off, he puts his headphones in. It had been simple to download all three Dandelion albums to the old music player Ciri had given him for his birthday two years ago. He never uses the thing, so he’s glad to finally do something with it. Geralt presses play and closes his eyes, letting the sound waft over him.

He ends up falling asleep halfway through the first album in their discography. He dreams of cornflower blue, champagne, and lilies.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the amazing feedback so far! it means a lot to me that people are interested in this. also i left the lyrics of "dandelion"'s music vague on purpose so that you could substitute in your favourite artist (hozier, harry styles, the amazing devil, etc etc) but my inspiration for what his pop music sounds like is definitely james vincent mcmorrow. if you haven't heard the album post tropical you should go give it a listen! cavalier is one of my favourites and definitely the song i was thinking of for the end bit. i hope you enjoy this update!

Geralt is a smart man. He’s been in relationships before and he knows the run-down. Even in those few magical bonds where he’d felt things click perfectly into place, something had always been too much for the other party. Be it his daughter, or his career as a monster hunter. (Usually his career.)

And when he’s been involved with people from his work, or others who were all too familiar with the strange and unusual, he still has struggled to make a connection. So eventually, since he’s such a smart man, he figures it out. When the failing relationships all have the same common denominator, and his ex-partners go on to find love and happiness with other people, it doesn’t take much for him to figure out that he’s the problem.

He deals with it, as best as someone can deal with the provable fact that they’re unwanted. Most of the time, that involves shoving feelings aside and doing his best to forget about people. It’s almost better that way because then he doesn’t have to trouble Ciri about anything like a step-parent, or further confuse her about her family tree. And it’s easy enough to avoid unwanted attention when he rarely sees anyone that he doesn’t already know, so Geralt doesn’t spend his time worrying about things like romance.

Jaskier calls the very next night.

Jaskier calls before Geralt even turns the corner away from Ciri’s school. He’s stuck waiting at the crosswalk for a group of teenagers when his phone starts vibrating in the cup holder. He frowns, wondering if Vesemir got a new number— or, worse, if Vesemir connected a new client to him without asking. Geralt hates it when his boss does that. He’s not the most social person _in-_ person, and over the phone it’s all he can do not to throw the stupid thing right out the window.

He contemplates his open car window for a few seconds before groaning and finally picking up the call. “Hello.”

“Hello,” a voice chimes back at him, sounding ridiculously pleased already. As if they’re grinning ear to ear; their voice curves with it. “Has your shift started already? I didn’t want to call too early.”

There are only a few people in the world who would know that he works nights, and it sure doesn’t sound like Ciri’s teacher or Lambert. Geralt grimaces, and the car behind him honks. He pulls forward and drives away, but it’s too late: his very curious child with a terrible habit of eavesdropping sits up straight in the passenger seat, leaning over to try to hear the conversation.

“Not yet,” Geralt mumbles. Ciri mouths _‘who-is-that’_ and he waves her off, frown souring. “Do you need something? Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m alright,” comes the voice over the line. “I’m touched that you remember me, really… Do you remember all the handsome passengers you drive around town, or am I special?”

Geralt curls his fingers around the wheel tightly, well aware of his daughter’s gaze burning holes in his skull. “I’m not a taxi service.”

“Of course, and that’s not why I’m calling you.” Jaskier clucks as if Geralt is the one making stupid nonsense statements that lead nowhere. “Can you come to my flat in an hour? You remember where I live, I hope.”

“Hmm.” He tries to imagine the sort of monster that Jaskier might have managed to summon in their less than twenty-four hours spent apart from one another. Unless the man has actual skeletons in his borrowed closet, it would be hard to produce a threat that quickly; but this town is always experiencing some sort of low-level scourge that Jaskier could have easily stumbled into. “Fine. You aren’t in imminent danger, right?”

“I was worried about starvation,” the man begins, tone jaunty and amiable enough to suggest that he’s never faced any danger in his life, imminent or otherwise. “But I dug something up from the depths of this pantry, and then after that I remembered that I ordered takeaway the night before last, so no, I’ll survive—”

Geralt hangs up on him, blurting “One hour” into the phone and then not bothering to wait for a response. He checks that Jaskier is no longer on the line and then sighs, dropping his phone back into the cup holder unceremoniously. “So. How was school?”

Ciri is smiling like the cat that got the cream, or an executioner on judgement day. Geralt doesn’t even have to look over; she radiates through his peripheral vision. “School was fine. Umm, who was that on the phone?”

“Work,” Geralt taps his fingers against the wheel. “I have to start early tonight, so we won’t be able to watch anything. Any plans?”

“It didn’t sound like work!” The girl crosses her arms, somehow both imperious and inquisitive. “Is Vesemir letting you talk to people now? I thought only the other witchers were allowed to, because you have resting bitch face.”

“Don’t say bitch,” Geralt chides her, and he glances over just in time to catch the tail-end of her eyes rolling. “And we aren’t called _witchers,_ that’s archaic. We’re a research institute that investigates paranormal occurrences. Did Vesemir tell you I have a resting bitch face?”

“No,” Ciri giggles, which suggests that it was definitely one of the others. “What work do you have to do tonight? I could come along!”

Geralt shakes his head, feeling strangely guilty about it. It isn’t like he’s actually sneaking out to go on a date; for all he knows, Jaskier isn’t into men. And on a regular night he would never bring Ciri with him unless he had no other choice, no matter how much she complained about it. His tone softens as he tells her, “Not tonight.”

“Hmm,” Ciri says, in what Geralt thinks might be meant as some sort of impression of him. He turns to look at her, disgruntled, but she just reaches to turn on the radio, the perfect picture of innocence.

He doesn’t dress up; he considers it, rifling through the hangers in his closet for something that might say _‘I don’t know why you asked me to come see you, please don’t have summoned a demon or anything, your taste in music is offensive but you’re somehow attractive despite that’._ Unsurprisingly, none of his ordinary, unostentatious clothes match that description. He finds a sand-coloured shirt hidden amongst all his black and dark brown clothing, but when he tries it on he can already picture the bloodstains that the thin fabric would be able to retain.

Geralt blinks away thoughts of bloodshed, picking the next shirt he grabs. In the end he spends more time doing his hair than choosing an outfit. He combs it all out and borrows some of Ciri’s expensive hair product— likely a gift from Triss through Yennefer. Then he braids it back in the Touissant style and leaves the topknot curly and half-damp.

When he sees Jaskier, Geralt thinks he should have spent longer on his outfit. Apparently waiting outside for him, Jaskier is leaning up against the wall next to the building’s entrance like some sort of model. Geralt squints at him and at his very fine clothes; clothes suggesting that he hasn’t called on Geralt for business reasons at all. The instant Jaskier notices the cab pull up, he brightens— this time, he walks around to slide into the passenger seat.

Geralt stupidly reaches for his bag and tosses it into the backseat with one hand. His weapons clang against his other weapons in a very telling show of noise, but Jaskier doesn’t bat an eye. He fastens his seatbelt before Geralt can even ask, and then reaches to roll down his window. “Good evening, Geralt. You’re right on time.”

“You asked me to be,” Geralt mutters, already feeling stupid and out of place. He pretends to fidget with the meter that likely ran out of batteries years ago— do they even run on batteries? “So, where are you headed?”

“Wherever you’re headed,” says Jaskier cheerily. Geralt stares, and after a moment, he relents, “Well, wherever your work takes you! I was thinking I’d just stick around and go where you go, if that’s alright with you. I’d gladly pay the fare for the whole night.”

“No,” Geralt interrupts, even though he gets the feeling he should be saying yes. The Keep is far from the most profitable business in town. “… You won’t want to see what I’m looking for tonight.”

“And what’s that?”

“You won’t want to see it,” he insists. “Trust me.”

“Try me!”

Jaskier’s sweater is knit with such large threads that it looks like it could fall apart at the slightest touch. Geralt tries not to think about Jaskier’s clothing falling off his body, and as a result his mind supplies images of this ridiculous, well-dressed man being torn apart like tissue paper by sharp draconic claws and teeth.

“It looks like a dragon fucked a chicken,” he says after a moment of deliberation, starting the car. Worse comes to worst, he can just drive the guy back home before going to his stake-out point. “If I’m lucky, it won’t even be there tonight. But enough people in the area have reported disappearing animals and seeing weird things that it _could_ be a cockatrice.”

“Ooh, a cockatrice,” Jaskier twists in his seat, crossing his knees and turning his body so that he can face Geralt. “I’ve heard of that! It’s like a basilisk, right?”

“No,” Geralt says reflexively. “Well. A little.” They’re often mixed up due to an ancient translational error, but every bestiary that Geralt’s ever read takes great care to differentiate the beasts. “Never fought a basilisk.”

“But you have fought one of these, then.”

“Once.” His hands tighten around the wheel. “So— so you believe me that they’re real?”

Jaskier shrugs and sits back down properly so that he can lean his elbow out the window. The breeze blowing through the car smells like lilies and champagne again; even Jaskier’s scent sparkles. Geralt wrinkles his nose at that truly pathetically poetic thought. “Well, sure, I believe you. I mean, I saw you kill… whatever the hell that thing was last night, and you don’t seem like you’re charming enough to be some sort of magician. No offense!”

“None taken,” Geralt assures him. He’s pretty sure being told that he doesn’t have what it takes to make it as a stage magician is high praise. “Most people wouldn’t come around on the existence of the supernatural so quickly.”

“I’ve always been a romantic,” Jaskier says, smiling. Geralt chances a glance over at him and ends up catching the full force of his daydreaming smile, which is lethal. If he brought that out into battle, no cockatrice would stand a fucking chance. “Always wanted some kind of magic to exist, you know? And it makes sense that at least one conspiracy would be true; there aren’t enough drugs in the world to explain all the similar stories that people share about… you know, the, um, the supernatural. Hang on, can we circle back to dragons?”

“They aren’t very interesting,” Geralt tries desperately to stifle and smother the conversation, but he’s starting to suspect that Jaskier might be some sort of social imp whose strength is amassed by trapping antisocial people into unending conversations. And he made the mistake of letting the demon into his car— some monster hunter he is. “Pretty much what you’d expect from fables, except most of them are extinct. They used to be a bigger problem centuries ago.”

“You talk like you were there for those centuries,” says Jaskier. “Your Keep follows some very traditional rules though, right? I can tell from the way you describe monsters, it’s… you’re not like, Buffy, or something. It’s all very high fantasy.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Geralt mumbles. “It’s not— I wish it was fantasy, but it’s not. It’s real.”

Jaskier goes quiet at that, a blessed rarity except that Geralt doesn’t feel blessed and just feels like he slipped up somehow. He scrambles for what to say next and just as he’s about to ask Jaskier what kind of conspiracies he’s heard, the man says, “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that you certainly look the part of some dungeon-trawling adventurer from fantasy, especially with that braid.”

Then he reaches up in a small, aborted motion as if he’d wanted to touch Geralt’s hair, and Geralt very nearly crashes the car. He keeps the taxi between the paved lines only thanks to his years of practice with distracted driving, and he decidedly does _not_ shudder as Jaskier retracts his hand quickly. Time for a change of topic; “What about you? You didn’t mention last night what you do for a living.”

“I’m an entertainer,” Jaskier declares, exceptionally proud.

Geralt blinks. “Any money in that?” Then he regrets saying that because it’s rude to point out Jaskier’s obvious wealth, even if it’s true. And obvious.

But the entertainer takes it in stride, moving to fidget with the closest air vent on the dashboard. “It isn’t what people think it is,” he tells Geralt, no less proud than before. “Not always. Not when you’ve got connections.”

“Is your family in that business too, then?”

This question, however, does seem to hit some nerve. Geralt, studiously watching the road so that he doesn’t stare at Jaskier’s fingers, misses his initial reaction. They slow to a stop at a red light and Geralt realizes their conversation has stopped too— when he glances over, he sees his passenger pursing his lips, sour-faced and strangely quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt begins, just as Jaskier blurts out, “No, um—”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not prying at all, just making conversation! You must think I’m terribly dramatic,” Jaskier laughs, false and awkward, poking fun at himself. Geralt _does_ think that, but that doesn’t make him any more comfortable with the man’s obvious discomfort. “No, they’re not interested in that sort of thing. But yes, they do have some money. Not that you should get any ideas about kidnapping me, they have a strict policy against negotiating with kidnappers.”

Geralt snorts, which seems to cheer Jaskier up. “You invited yourself along,” he points out.

“Maybe I’m in on it!” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows in a manner that might be considered salacious if it didn’t look so stupid. Thankfully he abandons the silly joke and pivots to an equally unwelcome subject. “What about you, do you have any family?”

He should say no. He doesn’t even know this man. “My daughter.” _Fuck._ “She’s still in school.”

“Oh, yes, you mentioned! She’s fifteen, right? And a big Dandelion fan?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, turning away from Jaskier to refocus on the road. “Kids go through a lot of phases.”

Jaskier ignores that entirely. “Maybe it’ll become a lifelong passion of hers. Music! Does she have any interest in the arts?”

“I don’t think her post-secondary plan involves going to school so that she can be a clown,” Geralt rumbles.

His passenger gasps with offense, and then reaches over to swat him. “I’m not a clown! I said _entertainer_ , not…” Jaskier swats him again. “You’re a dick!”

“Better a dick than a clown,” he laughs. When he steals another glance over, he sees Jaskier smiling too, and it does something very funny and illogical and warm to his chest. Geralt thinks he might be fucked.

Tonight’s destination is hardly the most exciting place Geralt has ever scouted. They drive so far into the woods that the paved road disintegrates into gravel, and then dirt, and then they’re practically off-roading as he drives them over roots and other bumps.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind; he chatters away without a care as they leave the safety of the highway streetlights behind. When they reach the abandoned structure marked on Geralt’s map with a crude joke from Lambert, the passenger leans forward against the dash curiously, peering out the windshield for any sign of a dragon-chicken hybrid.

Geralt undoes his seatbelt, reaching into the back to grab his bag. Then he turns off the ignition, killing the headlights. The forest is plunged into darkness; it isn’t actually that dark yet but it takes his eyes a second to adjust. 

In front of them is a stone building that was once used for events here, and hasn’t been suitable for humans in years. It’s an eyesore that the local government should really just tear down; Geralt is glad that nobody was stupid enough to try. The cockatrice— if it is a cockatrice— should be able to sense out their warmth on its own and come looking for food. He briefly considers letting Jaskier know that they’re the bait but dismisses the idea when he imagines the noise that the man would make. 

So for now he stays silent. Astonishingly, his passenger does too. Jaskier doesn’t say a word, he just fidgets with whatever’s in reach— his phone, for a bit, but when he tires of that he starts to mimic Geralt and stare out into the darkness. Geralt doesn’t mind the imitation, too focused on his task of waiting for the monster.

He quickly loses track of how long it’s been. When he finally manages to distract himself from Jaskier’s scent and body heat, it’s easy to get wrapped up in his stake-out and shut out all senses except sight and sound. Geralt is experienced at waiting; he’s crouched in much smaller spaces, and much less comfortable positions. This is almost luxurious in comparison.

For a very, very long time, there’s nothing at all. Then, the shadow of the building blinks and extends itself in a preternatural shape, and Geralt inhales, and—

“Well,” Jaskier interrupts, commanding his attention again. “It’s been an hour, and you haven’t murdered or fucked me yet, so I’m beginning to lose the plot a little. Why are we up here?”

Geralt reaches over and covers Jaskier’s mouth with his hand— he misses at first, gripping the man’s jaw awkwardly. His gaze is still pinned on the shadow. “Shhh,” he admonishes, raspy and low from so long without making any noise.

But it’s too late; the creature hiding behind the broken stone walls notices them and lets out a loud wail, sounding more like a cougar than a rooster. Jaskier inhales, sharp and afraid. Geralt grins, exhaling for the first time in an hour at the sight of what he’s been waiting for.

Pulling his hand away to grab his silver sword, Geralt kicks his door open and yells right back just as loud. Not _just_ as loud, of course; his shout doesn’t shake the ground or collapse any buildings or anything, but he still thinks it does the trick. The cockatrice seems interested judging by the way it storms towards him, which is perfect; the last thing he wants is this monster grabbing Jaskier out of the car like something out of a creature feature.

He’s grateful he took the time to prepare his weapon with oil specifically toxic to ornithosaurs when the beast tries to swoop around and sting him and ends up tasting his blade. The cockatrice screams again and Geralt roars, lunging forward. Unfortunately it seems to recognize his footwork and guesses his next move, and its claws swipe out before he can stab it.

Barely dodging the venomous attack, Geralt struggles to fight with the creature. And to make matters worse, he sees Jaskier on the other side of the car, who has, for some unknowable reason, _stepped out of the car._ The man is watching the fight with obvious terror but he also seems to be approaching for some reason, so Geralt yells as he rolls under the belly of the cockatrice, slashing upwards, “Move back!”

Thankfully, Jaskier jumps away. He doesn’t put as much distance between himself and the fight as Geralt would like, but thankfully he’s got this thing pretty fucking distracted. Unfortunately, the cockatrice is giving as good as it’s getting, which means he’s tiring fast. When one of the talons scratches down his thigh and reopens his wound from the ghoul fight yesterday, Geralt seizes up from the pain and for a moment, he’s scared too.

But muscle memory outweighs human fear and he slashes the beast away with both hands as he leans on his uninjured side, grunting loudly. He’s got potions to deal with the venom but he can’t very well drink a potion while this thing is still trying to bite his head off. There’s nothing else to do; he’s just going to have to use a sign.

“Jaskier, look away,” yells Geralt, and he only waits two seconds before raising his hands to push his enemy back. Aard works its magic, grounding the flying beast and even stunning it for a moment. That brief moment is all Geralt needs; he dashes forward and slides his silver sword neatly through its neck.

The severed cockatrice head drops onto the forest floor but Geralt still pants heavily for a minute more, heart racing as he watches the body for impossible movement. Maybe the toxins from his wound are playing havoc with his brain, or maybe he’s just paranoid after witnessing the impossible one too many times. Either way, Geralt stares at the ugly dark liquid draining from the throat before he remembers he gets paid to collect this sort of thing, and then he reaches into his pocket to grab a vial and hastens forward.

The toxic venom is easy enough to bottle up and safely stow. The feathers are a little trickier; the corpse is still warm and it shudders every time Geralt plucks another feather from its plumage, as if it can still feel pain. Geralt feels an awkward rush of pity for the cockatrice; sure, it might be a monster borne of hatred but did it deserve to die? Well, yeah, it had definitely deserved to die. But still… he’d better honour the remains.

He pulls the tail closer to harvest its central tail feathers, wrinkling his nose at the thick stench of blood and viscera. He’s standing in it now, and Geralt finds himself grateful yet again that his shoes are easy to wash. He’d learned that the hard way. As he lifts the head from the ground and shakes off some of the poisonous blood, Geralt hears a small voice from behind him ask, “Can I look now?”

He turns so abruptly that he nearly drops the cockatrice head. Jaskier is still standing by the taxi, but he’s facing away from the building. Away from the fight. Charmed by his obedience and more than a little embarrassed by the way he’s slightly bent over the hood, Geralt tells him, “Yes. It’s safe, I’m— yes.”

Likely afraid of getting turned into stone, Jaskier takes his time turning around. But when he finally sees Geralt, his face contorts and he starts freaking out properly. “Shit, what’s— oh, _no—”_

The man makes a beeline forward, staring at the ghastly sight in Geralt’s hands. He pulls the cockatrice’s head out of reach. “Don’t touch it.”

But it turns out Jaskier’s gaze is pointing lower; he isn’t even looking at the monstrous remains. “Oh, god, Geralt. Your leg!”

“My…” Geralt pauses, and then he does drop the head unceremoniously. “Oh, right. Ugh. I was poisoned, that… thing is toxic. I need to take an antidote.”

“Okay, do you… do you have one? You have to wash that out,” Jaskier orders, and then pulls Geralt back to the taxi. He keeps ducking down to check the wound, and ends up flipping them so that he can push Geralt back against the hood. “Sit.” 

Geralt sits, a little bemused by the behaviour and by his own completely inappropriate reactions to being shoved around by a man with shoulders as wide as Yennefer’s. But if Jaskier wants to nurse him back to health, far be it from Geralt to stop that strange decision. “Antidote’s in my bag,” he huffs. “Little blue bottle.”

“Right,” Jaskier nods, and then dashes off to grab it. He returns with the little blue bottle in one hand, and in his other is the first aid kit from the glove compartment.

Geralt rolls his eyes at that, but he’s not going to turn down a potion; not when his leg fucking aches like this. He downs the whole antidote, figuring he’d rather upset his stomach than walk around with rotten blood. The liquid courses down his throat, cold and sharp and shrill, and he coughs for a minute afterwards but thankfully it stays down. “Thanks.”

“Not done.” Jaskier stares at his leg once more and Geralt sighs and relents. His pants are ripped to shit already so he just undoes the clasp and then shoves them down to hang around his ankles, leaning back against the hood of his car. “Jesus, that’s…”

Coughing again, Geralt tries not to sound as affected as he feels by Jaskier staring at his bare thighs and calves. “Like what you see?”

“No,” the man says bluntly as he uncaps a bottle of disinfectant. “I mean, yeah, I’ve got fucking eyes, but it looks horrible. Fuck. Here,” and he practically upends the disinfectant everywhere.

The sting is almost worse than the initial hurt, and Geralt hisses. His hand flails out and he ends up holding the edge of his headlight, fingers digging into the groove where it meets the metal hood. “You were supposed to stay in the car,” he groans.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Jaskier laughs, apparently unbothered by Geralt’s very intimidating voice. “And whatever, you never told me to stay in the car!”

“Didn’t think I had to.” He winces as Jaskier lifts his leg to wrap a bandage underneath and around his thigh. “I don’t know why you came along in the first place.”

“Inspiration,” says Jaskier before instantly trying to change the subject. “Anyway. You must go through a lot of pants in your line of work, huh?”

That startles a laugh out of Geralt, and the sound also surprises Jaskier. “Ciri makes fun of me for that all the time,” he explains. “It’s the only gift she ever gets me; new clothes.”

Jaskier pauses. “... Ciri?”

“Ciri is my daughter.”

“Ah.” Jaskier sighs with bizarre relief. He finishes wrapping the wound, fastening the bandages and then gently running his finger along the bare skin of Geralt’s leg. Geralt shudders at the sensation. “How’s that?”

Very conscious of how close Jaskier is to his crotch, Geralt mumbles, “Not bad.”

The man glows with pride. “Yes, not bad at all for my first mission!”

“That wasn’t your mission.” Suddenly the situation sinks in; if Geralt had lost his edge for even a moment, Jaskier could be gravely injured right now. “That wasn’t your— that wasn’t your first mission. That wasn’t a mission! What are you talking about? I’m driving you home.” Then he fully takes in the glowing expression on Jaskier’s happy face, and he balks. “ _Wait_ , how are you not scared? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Undeterred, Jaskier asks, “I mean, what’s there to be scared of?”

Struck speechless, Geralt points dumbly at the cockatrice’s remains.

“Oh,” Jaskier turns to consider it, “is it still dangerous?” And then he starts walking towards the poisonous remains, and Geralt’s vision flashes. He grabs Jaskier by the collar before he can even think about it, yanking the man away from the monster.

Unfortunately, this means Jaskier is pulled towards another monster; Geralt tugs him close by the collar and Jaskier stumbles forward to stand between Geralt’s knees. His very bare knees. Jaskier makes a small sound of astonishment, eyeing Geralt keenly in the lowlight. They aren’t very far apart at all now, and Geralt’s hands are still wrapped around the collar of Jaskier’s shirt.

Geralt’s face floods with heat and embarrassment, and he releases Jaskier before anything can happen. “I need to collect the head,” he mumbles. It’s meant to come out as a very serious growl, but he can hear the awkward humiliation in his own voice, loud and obvious.

Jaskier grins. “Ah, yes. The cockhead!”

“What. Is.” Geralt squints at Jaskier. “... There is something wrong with you.”

And Jaskier, surrounded by the heavy smell of cockatrice guts, hands still covered with Geralt’s blood, smiles brightly. “Do you wanna get food on the way back? There might be a drive-thru or something.”

They end up going to one of Geralt’s favourite restaurants; a simple diner open all night that never asks any questions or hosts exceptionally large crowds. The cockatrice head will keep in the back of his taxi, and Vesemir would probably be grateful if he managed to take care of himself _before_ focusing on work for once. There’s a voice pricking at the back of his mind insisting that Vesemir will be disappointed or angry with him instead, but Geralt quiets his anxieties and focuses on his passenger. Jaskier needed food, so they’re getting food.

Besides, Jaskier is _not_ meeting the other interns. Not ever, but especially not tonight. So Geralt is glad for the opportunity to go get food, because it means he’ll get to steal a little more time with his new… friend? Customer? It’s extremely unclear.

On the drive over Geralt takes advantage of a lapse of silence in their conversation to reach for the cord and connect his music to the player. The only files on it are old recordings from a tricky mission involving illusion magic and the Dandelion albums he downloaded yesterday, so it’s easy to find what he wants to play. He hopes it’ll cheer Jaskier up a little— not that the guy seems especially glum, but Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if he had some sort of breakdown in the next few hours. Most people do after encountering hard proof of the supernatural.

At the very first chord that plays through the car speakers, Jaskier jumps in his seat. His head shoots up and he stares at Geralt, who clears his throat awkwardly. “I… I checked out Dandelion, since it seemed so important to you that I listen to it.”

Jaskier gapes and then smiles abruptly, turning in his seat so that he can face Geralt. “Well? What are your thoughts??”

“I like them,” he tells his passenger begrudgingly. “Some of the covers are nice… I’m not a fan of the remixes, but it’s better than I expected overall. I mean, I don’t know anything about music, but. It’s… not unpleasant.”

“High praise,” laughs Jaskier, but there’s no anger behind it. He’s still smiling, and it’s nearly blinding. 

When they stop at a red light, Geralt reaches for the player to switch to track four on the second album. “This one’s my favourite, but that credit should probably go to whoever wrote it. The singer’s got a nice voice, but the writing is where it shines.”

Strangely, this seems to throw Jaskier off a little. He stares at Geralt in bemusement, and Geralt stares back, just as bemused. Then, another smile spreads over his face, slow and beautiful. He looks very charmed, and just as happy as when Geralt had told him he liked the line about being weak and wanting. He must be some sort of superfan, then. Finally, he tells Geralt, “It’s just one guy.”

The light turns green and Geralt speeds forward, but he spares Jaskier a sidelong glance. “I assumed Dandelion was a band. It’s just one guy?”

“Yes,” stammers Jaskier, “yeah, all the— everything is written, recorded, played, sang… all by… h-him. Dandelion.”

“Well, that is impressive,” Geralt admits. “Oh, here…” He turns up the volume for the next verse, his personal favourite on the album. The soft folksy electronic music is punctuated only by the occasional turn signal, or other cars passing by. Whoever this Dandelion is is certainly talented, especially if he’s coordinating everything himself.

They sit in silence as Geralt drives, both listening to the song with a strange shared sense of belonging. Geralt nods solemnly and then he catches Jaskier staring at him out of the corner of his eye. They pull up outside the diner and Geralt parks the car.

“Just hold on for one second,” Jaskier says, unbuckling his seatbelt as the song draws to a close. “There’s something I absolutely have to do.”

He starts to nod again. But before he can say anything in response, Jaskier lunges forward, throwing himself over the centre console to kiss Geralt fiercely. Geralt is a smart man. He knows how relationships usually go. None of that prevents him from returning the kiss, and reaching up to pull Jaskier closer.


End file.
